


It Was a Dream, But it Wasn't

by kenopsiaa



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 05:42:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10678872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenopsiaa/pseuds/kenopsiaa
Summary: Post-jet explosion, Neal isn't doing very well. Sara does what she can to help.





	It Was a Dream, But it Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Neal/Sara fluff :)

The soft echo of the glass French doors opening onto Neal’s terrace stir Sara’s peaceful slumber. She squints at the digital clock on the bedside table and frowns at the small hour that the red numbers indicate in the darkness. And then she sighs, because tonight isn’t the first time Neal has slipped out of bed and into the night air, falsely assuming that she doesn’t notice when he closes the door shut behind him.

Rays of silver moonlight filter through the windows, casting eerie shadows across the still apartment. For a moment Sara lingers in bed, but eventually she kicks the duvet away and quietly pads out to the terrace, slipping her arms into Neal’s worn dress shirt over her undergarments as she goes.

The frown lines around his mouth and brow melt away almost instantly when he notices her. His voice is muted and soft, almost disappearing within the noises of the traffic below. “Hey.”

“Hey, you.”

He lowers the knee he’d pulled to his chest while he lounges in the outdoor armchair facing the balustrade. Taking the movement as an invitation to join him, Sara shuffles closer and curls up against his side in the small space he offered. Almost instinctually, his arm is draped around her shoulders. “Did I wake you?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

He must have noticed something in her expression when he asks, “Do I always wake you?”

“Yes,” she repeats, grin widening.

She can sense the apology about to tumble from his lips, but she waves it off before he has the chance.

“It’s all right.”

There’s guilt in his blue eyes, but he forces the corners of his lips upward and presses a gentle kiss to her temple. “You should go back to sleep.”

“I’m just fine right here.”

As he stretches his leg out to rest on the coffee table in front, she catches a glimpse of the green dot blinking steadily on the tracking anklet. Briefly she wonders how invasive it must feel, knowing that someone is constantly watching you, monitoring your every move. She hadn’t thought much of it before, as she’d been primarily content with the fact that Neal had been reprimanded for stealing _St. George_ , along with dozens more of his wrongdoings.

Now, though, she tries to imagine how annoying it must be for him to know that Peter could be checking his anklet at any moment.

It's obvious that he's struggling with Kate's sudden death - as he should be. The explosion hadn't happened all that long ago, and, with Neal's being in jail, he was never provided with any closure due to his absence at her funeral. She still notices the shock penetrate him at random; he'll freeze up, grasp the back of a chair or the edge of a table, and with gritted teeth he'll shut his eyes tight while she knows the scene of Kate's plane going up in flames is running through the forefront of his mind. And all she can do is stand there and brace his arm and wait for Neal to come back to himself. It's dreadful to watch, and she can only imagine the pain of the memory, but she cares deeply for him and wants to help him in any way that she can.

“Doing okay?” She relaxes into his arms and feels his fingers in her hair.

His voice rumbles through his chest as she leans her head against him. "Yeah."

She pauses. “Was it a dream?”

“It was,” he murmurs. “But, it wasn’t.”

If he’s talking about the jet explosion, as she presumes, then she understands because that heartbreaking day was unfortunately not just a bad dream. “Is there anything I can do?”

He sighs, pulling her closer into his side. “You’re perfect.”

His words bring a smile to her lips, but she can’t help comprehending their subtext: _There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do._

“You really should go back to bed, Sara,” he remarks gently. “We’ve both got work in a few hours.”

“All right, but you have to go in first.”

“Fair enough.”

A long moment passes, and neither of them makes a move to get up, which results in quiet amusement until they wordlessly agree to remain outside on the terrace; and they eventually fall back into peaceful slumbers, fitting against each other’s bodies in a perfect embrace.

The April nights are warming up, anyway.


End file.
